Torment
by randoMMise
Summary: This is the story of my OC in a slightly dystopic FFXIII universe. Set before the events of the game, all the major FFXIII characters will feature in this story of how one man fought against his fate. Please review!
1. Chapter 1

_**Okay, so this is my first ever fanfic I've opened to the public. A lot of hard effort has gone into what was originally just another "OC going through the main story with the rest of the cast" tale. In the end, it's become a far larger beast. The main character is my OC, but the whole FFXIII cast will appear during this story, if not in this chapter. I always would love to hear some of your thoughts, and any constructive criticism would also be very much appreciated. Enjoy!**_

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><p><span>Chapter 1:<span>

Look from the top of Phoenix Heights the centrepiece of a market metropolis, and you'd be stunned at the sunlight streaming between the towers of mirrored glass. The scene made for a spectacular sunrise as daylight started to swathe the city. These first shafts of light bore down through my apartment window and peeked through the blinds into my ill-kept bachelor's pad. I felt the warm sun on my skin. My arm tensed, my hand weighing a ton as it began to wander up towards my scarred face. I peeled my eyelids open. I closed them again immediately.

There was an indistinct murmuring from the oaken-panelled wall, so I listened and, a few moments later, I knew it as a human voice. Carefully, my other hand moved to my bedside table and slipped into the trigger of the pistol. Rolling and falling to the ground, I primed my gun. My eyes scanned the room, peering along the sight, searching for tell-tale silhouettes. A world, slightly out-of-focus, resolved itself. The television, switched on and humming quietly, was a witness to my paranoia. The glass of water from two nights ago, a mute observer of late nights and tiring days. The kitchen area was clean as it was seldom used, a monument to the demands of police work.

I stopped, sighed, and turned off the TV, as I focused on the present, on something real. The pistol in my hand, having been fired very few times outside the firing range, quite easily summarised my life. It had PSICOM's slogan on the side, the Sanctum's loyal contingent that specialised in discretion and efficiency, and served as an excellent side-arm for when the lead starts to fly. The rigours of the job demanded a combat knife secreted and sheathed over Kevlar armour. For crowd control, two gas grenades - non-lethal if you don't mind. Last came the manadrive; my port in a storm for healing. I clamped it around my wrist, wincing slightly as it whirred away, sending tiny sparks along my skin.

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><p>The truth behind Palumpolum was far different from the beautiful aura of its mirrors and glass. The city was struggling to adapt and grow to fit into the world, made painfully obvious by the worried faces that flooded the streets in the morning rush. People acted as though they were afraid of something terrible and all-knowing. I made my way through the back-streets in amongst the office workers, subconsciously noticing the social hierarchy. The uniforms gave way to the suits, who in turn gave way to the Sanctum. The rain had started to bleed through my armour.<p>

I noticed a pair of GC grunts making their way through the crowds. I sighed. PSICOM had split from the 'regular' police force and after a few lapses of judgement; it seemed the populace was far more wary of a hired gun of the Sanctum. The Guardian Corps had filled the streets with an affable 'police-for-the-people' image. PSICOM, with its expansive munitions vault and government ties, was seen more as something to fear, rather than rely upon.

"Hey Mike, might as well start using your codename."

I turned around to see my superior leering at me, pips glistening in the rain, her pout aggressive yet her green eyes calculating, harder than agates or emeralds.

"Nabaat." I spat back.

"I see you took a few hits to your frontal lobe... is that your natural cheerfulness I'm picking up?"

Her face betrayed a hint of a smile.

I wiped my fingers through my hair. Flakes of dried blood clung to my wet fingers. An injury from my last 'mission.'

"The healing will take care of that. Be sure not to worry. I only spent the last few days getting shot at," I retorted.

"You spent the last few days getting important objectives done. Hopefully I can get you to 'do your job' a lot more often."

"I hope not. Our 'job' is to ensure that people don't end up working for Pulse. I don't see how throwing me into a fire fight achieves any of that, and we can't afford to lose face any more. You know what the media's like."

"Sorry? I asked for your opinion? I think you're hired to hunt terrorists, and not to question my orders, so get over to the physician when we get back to base. Get him to look over that head wound of yours."

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><p>Having been passed fit by the physician, I took the opportunity to speak to the Quartermaster before heading back to duty. He was the armourer and hadn't seen active service since re-enlistment. While we talked his eyes told the tale of a man who had kept his nerve during the worst, his scarred flesh told me he'd suffered it.<p>

I explained: "I couldn't really say. My parents died when I was young. That's different."

"I lost my loved ones and you grew up without your parents. Which requires more courage? You'll be reassigned so you'll need different gear now. I'm going to give you some lock picks as standard. I suspect you're the one most in need of it now. Protocol also states I must give you the choice of ammunition or explosives." He'd never mentioned things in terms of protocol before

"Samnos... why does PSICOM have such a store of munitions?"

"Don't ask me. In my day, peacekeepers were citizens first and soldiers second."

"I'm getting the impression that PSICOM is focused more on military operations rather than law enforcement," I responded, pushing a little.

"The focus has shifted lately, I agree."

"Some of my superiors seem only satisfied if I execute everyone in order to achieve mission objectives. The standing order appears to be 'shoot to kill.'"

"Direct intervention is always part of the game. In my day we were just more civilised about it."

"'Civilised.' That's the word. I guess I was expecting more class from the world's leading anti-terrorist corporation."

"We just have to strike a balance. Why don't I throw in a couple of extra clips in with those picks? I trust you'll be able to judge when one or the other is appropriate for achieving mission objectives."

"Many of our bosses would scold you for doing that." I remarked pocketing the clips for later.

"If you want to change something, you're going to make enemies. Lots of them."

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><p>"Lieutenant Nabaat, I don't see the problem. Surely the plan couldn't have gone smoother?"<p>

Jihl Nabaat bowed her head to her superior, her platinum hair briefly concealing the fear in her eyes. He was right; the plan couldn't have gone smoother. She had followed her instructions with characteristic efficiency.

"He ought to have suffered enough at the hands of the fal'Cie to have no doubts, but Mark still shows autonomy. He's avoided all subjects of propaganda, even taken to forming an advance against our methods."

"Well you had better find a way of uniting him with us, otherwise the entire plan is ruined."

Nabaat shook her head in acknowledgement and turned to leave. Mark had artfully nudged himself into a tiny pigeon hole of being barely too valuable to be made redundant, but also barely too chaotic to be entrusted with more important operations. And as she couldn't help feel all she had managed to do was inflame the situation. But with her career dependant on the success of this mission, she couldn't stop.

As Nabaat left the room silently, her superior spoke out again: "I think it's time to bring the plan forward, my friend. There someone Mark simply has to meet."

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><p>It was reaching dusk, and I was getting more and more tired. The day had been uneventful, and the tedium of duty was dragging on. I felt a fool, standing on a tourist beach with more firepower than a platoon. My battle-rifle was nearly as long as I was. I squirmed slightly as the tourists glared at this over-armed 'policeman.' Either scared, or angry, or a mixture of the two. Ever since we'd split from the GC, and the financial situation had got worse, all the gossip concerned PSICOM and how they weren't doing things for the people. How the word spreads in times of crisis. I thought back to the conversation with Samnos. If PSICOM didn't have such a massive armoury, the revolt might have started already.<p>

I had spent the majority of the afternoon toying with my manadrive. The little device fascinated me, it's secrets remaining highly classified. It lay open in front of me like a disassembled clock. It was all cogs and screws and electronics intermingled with hydraulic actuators. With regards to magic, we really had very little to go on. The stuff of myth and legend, manifest in very few people. Indeed, those seemingly blessed with magical capabilities were linked to the cursed fal'Cie.

I enjoyed tinkering with the thing, flirting with its mechanics, trying to find out how it worked. The gadget had revolutionised policing, transforming officers into magic-wielding enforcers, deserving the utmost respect. Indeed, crime across Cocoon had fallen ever since manadrives had been introduced, and it was soon only extremists who dared challenge the might of the Sanctum. Of course, it was the Sanctum itself that held the monopoly on both the manufacture, and distribution of the manadrives.

I started to reassemble the small device, carefully putting the cogs back into place, when I spotted at the beach café – now closed – a shadowy figure appeared to be waiting to be served. Strange. I watched the figure as the night time darkness began to engulf the beachhead. Then a sharp prick to my throat. I could already feel an alien substance flushing through my bloodstream. I scanned desperately, my vision tunnelling, looking for the source of the dart, but to no avail. Now the floor was rising to greet me. My visor cracked with the fall as I slumped to the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hello anyone reading this. I'm sorry for such a short chapter, but it does contain some major plot events. And I promise you that the following chapters are more substantial. Again, please give me some feedback; it's much appreciated.**_

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><p>Chapter 2:<p>

My mind emerged from the darkness, seemingly drugged and doped. With some effort, I lifted my eyelids and tried to give out some form of vocalisation. It was no good. I was completely numb; my senses ever so slowly, returning along with the innate feeling of dread and despair.

"What happened?" a voice asked. It was my own.

I was far too tired to move my arms. Much to my dawning relief, the television was still turned off. There was a glass of water somewhere nearby, a glass of ambrosia that would cure this dryness in my mouth.

I arose, feeling and touching as many cupboards and chairs and supports and walls as possible, given the shifting floor and leaden limbs. The television, turned off, reflected the light of the falling sun. From on inside, an apparition squinted back. Eventually the reflection settled down into an image of a vagrant, unfocused and worried. He looked sick to the stomach, so I went to reach for the water. I drank it back, as though it were a liquid dream, then choked and stared; my attention captured by an altogether too real nightmare. I'd seen it. The tiny tattoo peeked out from on my throat.

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><p>I drifted, my feet leading me back to PSICOM's district outpost. I knew what happened to people like me. It didn't matter if you were Pulse or Sanctum – l'Cie are l'Cie. Tested upon, observed through glass cages, and trapped like lab rats; contained as though they were a threat to the public. Every organisation probing you for any advantage, be it in production, commerce, or research.<p>

There had to be a way to escape that, some way to find out what had happened during my lapse.

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><p>"You're resigning?" Lieutenant Nabaat asked, eyebrows and hands arching like a church-steeple. "Why?"<p>

"Something's... come up..." I said, voice empty and emotionless with a hint of tremor. I'd made myself a wreck over this, but realised with a cold depth of feeling that there could be no mistake. "...There can be no alternative,"

The officer glanced over my record, searching for meaning behind the madness. Her eyes, raised above the rim of her thin and tightly-framed glasses, were staring me in the face. She smiled, glaring into my eyes with an almost sardonic air.

"Let me set clear a few things for you. You've single-handedly aced the special forces training, received legionnaire's merit for your conduct, You are tipped for promotion... right up to lieutenant-colonel, if I read this right. Do tell me though, why is that exactly? Why did you succeed when the drop-out rate is so high? What drove you here?" She paused, trying to rationalise my motives. "Without PSICOM you appear to have little, next to nothing. With us you've got a livelihood, you've access to assets, the strength needed to correct the major wrong-doings in the world. You've access to everything you aimed for, and now you want to throw it away?"

"I just don't feel that PSICOM is right for me, given the lack of integrity, given that I feel I don't see a clear purpose behind my objectives. You say it's all to stop the fal'Cie, but-"

"-The fal'Cie took everything from you!" she interrupted. "Don't you want to take revenge for what they've done?"

I hesitated. Truly, I couldn't find the right words.

"Your future looked so bright! You can't seriously be throwing your life away?"

"There's nothing I can do about it," I said, avoiding eye-contact as though a violin had begun to play behind me. "PSICOM's no longer the place I joined; no longer a police force. I feel that... now we're just soldiers of the government. I can't work here anymore." She had no response to this. Ultimately the decision was mine. It needed no further explanation.

"I'd ask you to consider this my resignation." I said and stood to leave.

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><p>Rumour travels fast, especially so in a surveillance society. I was met at the exit by an old friend, one who'd abandoned his post as a matter-of-course. I really shouldn't have thought I could leave without saying my good-byes.<p>

"It's true," he said, paused, and sighed; all the time looking at me like a deserter or a war-criminal. That struck me a little deep.

"I'm sorry, I can't stay," I stammered. "Something's come up," but I knew, inside, that I was going to stay until he would release me.

"You could've been great, you could've..."

"I've heard a lot about what I could have been," I interrupted, replying sadly. "But that's not what I will be."

I could see the old soldier had a point to prove, and we both realised we were torn inside at my decision.

"When I said we needed change, I didn't mean this." he implored. "Please... we need good guys like you. There are already too many bloodthirsty types in PSICOM. We can't lose our best hope for the future."

But I'd already made up my mind. He knew that. We shared a regretful smile, painful though it is to remember, and I passed him by. All the time I had been there, I'd not realised that we'd almost become each-other's surrogate father and son. I never really knew what it was I had felt for him.

If I were to re-live that moment again I'd have stopped, said PSICOM was alien to me now, that our orders were not our directive, that we were only a tool for others. I'd have paused, and said:

"Sorry."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Another exposition chapter here, but the real action begins over the next few chapters. And the characters from FFXIII will start to play their part soon enough. This one took a lot of reworking over, but I'm pretty happy with how it's turned out. And it was fun to delve further into the concept of 'magic.' As always, reviews and comments are much appreciated.**_

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><p>Chapter 3<p>

The dingy cell I rented was hardly homely. Damp, moth-eaten curtains hung flaccid against grey walls - they'd barely closed over their greying windows. Loose floorboards creaked underfoot while webs hung from every corner of the room; their makers out hunting the vermin that infested the block of semi-adequate flats. My pay had been less than substantial but, without it, this was as much as I could afford.

Night time. I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, the plaster hidden beneath the cracks and cobwebs. I looked again at my hand, my brand. The truth hit me hard and cold. Even from before my parent's death I could see my life sliding away behind a maelstrom of deceit. Now, without PSICOM, I didn't even know who my allies were.

"If you want to change something..."

I was truly understanding what it meant to become a ghost. I sunk deep into melancholia. The tiny tattoo began to grow. It was sliding along my veins like poison or acid, sharp like ice and just as cold. I hadn't even taken my oath of service, though if I had I'd be fully PSICOM born and bred and seeing the people like me as targets.

An oath. What's that worth? Samnos had effectively founded the PSICOM that everybody knew and loved. Now, in an era of technological advancement, conspiracy and terror, only the experts of deceit could see clearly. I couldn't trust anyone, especially if they knew where they were going. Nabaat had helped me see that.

I looked back at the indent in my skin my manadrive had left. What I would have done for a little burst of magic now. The overwhelming sense of power, of security, of control that gives. To have command over incredible power, and being able to use it at your will, to fashion your own future. How I missed that ability to craft my own destiny. Everything seemed so out of reach, so out of my control. I felt helpless and the ink slithering up my throat was only ever a reminder of the severity of my situation.

I considered ending it there and then, surrendering myself to the monstrosity the tattoo represented. The crossed pitchforks on the tattoo grew extra barbs. My heart beat faster though something, to my later, greater, relief, held me back from this most deadly of sins.

My brand, though still growing, was still small. I pieced my mind back together, panic settling down to mere despair. To my relief, my tattoo slowed. It slowed, feeling my fear settle further. The mark on my throat stopped. My nerves settled. I bristled with resolve.

"I will fight. I don't know how I'll win." I paused, remembering the fate of all fal'Cie "...or even if I want to; but I'll fight it nonetheless."

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><p>I stepped out of my lonesome apartment into the pandemonic streets of Palumpolum. The noise market day brings still surprises me, especially in an internet-commerce world; traders competing with each other to shout the loudest or the crowd's inane babble, trying to sell me their various trinkets. Children dragged their parents over to stalls to be dragged away again lest they started begging. I burrowed back into my oversized greatcoat and pulled my balaclava up higher to hide my mark.<p>

Heading away from the market, I lost the oppressive crowds. Knowing the area since before my adolescence, I roamed the side-streets, wandering forgotten alleys away from the prying eyes of onlookers. The encroaching walls either side of me smothered the sounds of trade, the sweet smell of sticky morsels were gradually replaced by the stale reek of cast-off rubbish, sweat and rotten, forgotten foodstuffs. I entered the festering slums encircling the city, even noise was recycled in this echo-filled chasm of a place.

The proud building on the outskirts of the district was tall, yet insignificant. The library looked out of place here compared to the ultra-modern concrete and glass apartment blocks flanking it either side. Concrete supports peered over the tiny building while dominating the local architecture - an almost snobbish air of superiority surrounding them. My eyes strayed back to the library and its out-dated aura with a little less apprehension. It was time to learn about what I was up against.

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><p>Libraries have never been my most favourite of places. I preferred actions over books, reflexes over reflection. Now I was poring over volumes and volumes of text like the most eager of bookworms. I scoured block after block, paragraph after paragraph of text. I remember looking around, thinking that this had to be one of the low points of my life, but I'd wandered aimlessly in the dark long enough. I started thinking long and hard about my fate but that seldom lasted long, desperate as I was for that one glimpse of hope, that one iota of knowledge that would be recorded on crude paper from clumsy, clattering printing presses.<p>

Strangely enough, I had never felt so self-conscious since among the dusty lecterns. I made a strange sight - most people wouldn't want any kind of paperback as they could always download it from the Sanctum archives. I didn't want to waste my time letting the government know what I was reading. The idea that PSICOM still held a tether to me left me taking elaborate precautions to avoid detection and blend into the underground. Even in public, I was unnaturally nervy and jumpy, expecting every other person to accuse me of being l'Cie. The panic would cause my brand to grow further. It had slowed to a crawl across my neck but I still refused to stop, still refused to sleep. Every night, I would scourge myself of every notion or doubt, I would do anything to stay alive. After days of searching and meditation, I found an article. It caught my eye in a forgotten passage of a long winded tome compiling decades old reports from questing scholars.

"Although many among more social cadres, as well as scholastic entrepreneurs regarding this subject, don't realise it, all known l'Cie[36] have had the ability to use, and have been recorded to use[37], magic; the fal'Cie's gift to them to help them complete their Focus."

The words lay imprinted on my eyes for a while. I read them again.

"Magic." I breathed.

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><p>That night I broke my routine. Sitting upright on the bed I ignored the tragic stares from the spiders and vermin and extended my will into creating the barest point of magic in my hand. I closed my eyes. Nothing happened. As I willed my very soul into the genesis of my only lifeline nothing happened further still. Only in a disappointed, yet meditative state did I start to focus, to see blurs - of light no less - flashing across my vision. I finally resolved to model my mind like the electronics of a manadrive. I'd limit the boundaries of the blurs until I saw them separate from another.<p>

Where would the magic 'come' from? The futility of the statement. Magic was just there. You couldn't argue with magic, it was just there. Rather than be reasonable and logical it would just stay there, random, uncontrolled and chaotic. There was an underlying pattern behind the way it worked, the greatest order from chaos, but still the greatest secrets eluded pursuers. I considered more controlled releases of will before the flashes of light began to slow, morphing from blurs into streaks, then finally to dashes. I sat perfectly still. Every muscle relaxed as, mesmerised by the slow-motion scene, I watched the world of magic unfurling before me. The dashes slowed further, becoming shorter. They stopped.

I still recall the point where I first opened my eyes. Carefully, almost timidly, I opened my eyes to the present, hoping the lights would not vanish as swiftly as they'd appeared. The lights remained, imprinted onto the grey walls and casting shimmering shadows where scuttling spiders dwelt and insects decomposed. The lights followed my gaze, printed onto my lens. Stunned by the mysterious pinpricks and fatigued by the effort of creation I lay back, but the lights refused to move and stayed, poised in sight, urging me to investigate further. Unable to resist the lure of the lights, I refocused, my eyes still closed, waiting for something to happen. Watching.

The specks stayed exactly where they were. Disappointed, I turned my attention onto one particular dot, right in the centre of my vision. The point of magic started to pulsate. I then thought then about my manadrive and the point stopped pulsing. I opened my eyes to see pure magic hovering in front of me. A world of water, shimmering with the glistening facets of uncharted seas. I smiled to myself. I fired it at the ceiling, gauging its strength. I peered through the tiny hole admiring the stars.

"Manadrives ain't got nothing on this!"

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><p>New abilities quickly make for new obsessions. Aside from the library, I spent all my time in the room testing how far I could stretch my power. It seemed each light would enact a different form of magic. I'd resolved to call the points 'thaums,' a hearkening reference back to the old days of thaumaturgy. My desperation was far from my mind as I meditated on the power of the fal'Cie. Magic had always captured my imagination but now I was consumed by the thoughts of omnipotence, of god-like power. The fal'Cie were the gods. They fed us the energy, we created the food from the energy, smelted the metal. I was l'Cie and child of fal'Cie. Looking back at my newest sphere of elemental magic I felt invincible... at least until I discovered the burns on my face after a mere hour or so of excessive exposure. Despite further hours spent studying in the library regarding the patterns of Manadrives, the key to curative magic remained elusive. Without the ability to heal, My cockiness swiftly abated. The full power of the fal'Cie wasn't mine quite yet.<p>

Although my casual experiments left me devoid of the need to shave that evening, my night time reflection still proved a brooding companion. I knew that, should I learn the extent of my new-found abilities, I still would not find an escape from my damned fate. People still were born, lived, and died. These gifts could not help me escape. I clutched my brand. It was a ticking time bomb. Anyone who was branded would suffer a living death for all eternity.

It was all to do with fear. Fear from authority, fear for the power behind PSICOM and fear for myself fed my mark. It was still growing. I considered PSICOM. They gave me no tracer, as per usual, but elected to stand away and not chase me up. No agent could match my skills, but I assumed PSICOM had too many enemies to focus on one soldier's resignation.

I thought over my inventory, a terrorist's optimum catch without the explosives. I wanted to change something – time to make enemies.


	4. Chapter 4

**_So here's the first major chapter with some action in it. Also, it includes a main plot theme - I had to keep my OC alive somehow... We also get to check in with Hope and another one of my one OCs. I tend to flit about a bit with the action, so hopefully it remains cohesive. As always, I'd love to hear from any readers._**

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><p>Chapter 4:<p>

"I'm sorry, sir. This was never supposed to happen."

Nabaat stood shakily before her superior, head bowed.

"Your incompetence could cost us this entire mission! Do you know how much is at stake here? This planet is broken, on the verge of total revolution, and we need a fully-fledged PSICOM leader to unite around."

"How was I supposed to know he wanted to leave?"

"You were supposed to keep him in our control! Without our guidance, who knows what he might become."

"I'll find him! I'll find a way to bring him back!"

"For your own sake, Lieutenant, I hope you do."

Nabaat turned to leave, but she was stopped when the voice spoke again.

"Lieutenant, I have another task for you. I need to find the whereabouts of a Dr. Reales. He has information the threatens our authority; I assume I can trust you to do your utmost to ensure he's placed in custody before he can cause any trouble?"

"Of course sir, I'll have my men begin a search right away."

With a flash of platinum-blonde hair, Nabaat left the room hastily. The empty room held its breath, before echoing with maniacal laughter.

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><p>I checked the mirror yet again, looking over the PSICOM uniform I had pilfered from Command weeks before. The fit was somewhat snug yet the weave and seams were sealed. I straightened my armoured jacket and attempted to tame my hair into something somewhat more respectable. Finally, pleased with my guise, I helmeted and headed from the apartment to my acquired target, grabbing the pre-written message from off the bed.<p>

Dashing through crowds over to the shuttle service, the crowds parted before me. In my state of dress, I demanded a shuttle to the Station 9 outpost located above Palumpolum. The youth at the desk was caught off guard by my appearance and authoritative manner. He showed me to the nearest craft, tripping over his own feet trying to help me out. I could see he was desperate not to become 'the person who slowed the PSICOM officer' on his mission so I gave him ample reason to hurry. I watched as the young boy rushed back to his post and lost no time in noticing that PSICOM's vice-like grip reigned supreme round here.

The shuttle was cramped and noisy. Many people, few seats. Each and every one of the people alongside me blinking as I passed. Was it because I still walked like a PSICOM born and bred? My own fabric covered chair sat alongside an industrious pen pusher punching at forms on his touch-screen. It read of spam, business records, tax returns and voting restrictions. I was sure that some of the glares I was getting were more than hostile.

I picked up a discarded paper. Today's. There was another set of riots in Eden, the Capital. Part of me thought I should be there but, as I saw that PSICOM were taking control of the issue, I held back and simply observed. This shuttle would do a roundabout trip to Eden, stopping off at several stations on the way, before finally heading towards Station 9. All transport to fal'Cies had to go through rigourous checks in Eden before travelling further.

Public hygiene had become a luxury many weren't able to afford. Fewer and fewer resources led to many more leading simple lives in fear of terrorism, famine, and plague. The population still outstripped the available supply. Anarchists had apparently forced the fal'Cie to halve their output, forced people to consume less, forced the public to contribute more. The corporations we're behind it all. Decentralising power until they had more power than the Sanctum itself.

Noticing my sidelong glance, the pen-pusher turned his head. I blinked. His face was drained of colour, much like a bleached photograph. The tablet slowly turned and he showed me his current e-mail.

"'Spam' Kuatycorps- It may seem that assisted suicide could seem like the most selfish option. Yet, with dwindling food supply and current healthcare cuts, self-euthanasia would be the best thing to do for your loved ones. The Sanctum has recently passed a bill that allows for a one-time transaction of 20'000'000 gil payed to a person of your choice at the moment of your acceptance to become a client at Kuatycorps."

He stowed it under his arm and left the shuttle at the next stop.

* * *

><p>"Whenever will you finish these books you read?" Nora called.<p>

Hope, his face impassive, glanced back over the ordered piles of bookmarks and folded pages.

"Each of them is finished Mum, it's just I need them marked for ease of reference." A professional response for one so young. She looked at his archive.

"I've never seen you use them. I'm sure some of them lie unread in there. Sort it out Hope, or I'll order them for you," she threatened.

Hope set his notes in order. Looking over at the shelves, Nora, who'd crept up behind him, saw a range of subjects. Each, when looked at in turn, painted a picture of a philosopher, a reader of literature, a historian and an ecologist but, when looked at together, pictured someone much more compassionate; much more loving. Hope turned, the surprise registered on teal green eyes. For a second, she was able to picture him with a smile. The moment passed. A brief embrace was all that was needed to set his mind at rest. A reluctant return was given.

"Hope, what's wrong?" escaped her lips. He looked up at her. For a fourteen year old kid, he could incite the greatest sympathy in others, and not just his mother.

"Nothing." It was all he said. A glance betrayed his feelings. He'd looked over at his father and aunt as they talked. He knew his father would lie in seclusion, spending more time in agony against his twin's ideals and not with his family's appreciated, and practised, virtues.

Nora Estheim placed on his forehead a gentle kiss after she saw the target of his gaze, then left to give him some space.

* * *

><p>I showed the officials at the check-desk my pre-written letter. This was the one part of my plan I was worried about. If they could see the forgery, I was as good as dead. I held my breath as they looked over the document.<p>

"Everything seems in order, Colonel. You may proceed."

"Thank you," I replied, unable to contain my relief.

"Don't thank me," the official said. "I'd hate to be on that shuttle."

With that he walked off, and I was left bemused.

* * *

><p>Dr. Reales looked on at the high-rise apartment in Phoenix Heights. His wife had gone in not ten minutes ago, but he could already hear the raised voices of a domestic fracas. He considered entering the home himself, but thought against it. He knew how much his wife's brother stood against his profession. No point exacerbating the issue, he thought.<p>

A couple more minutes passed, when finally, his wife left the building and made her way across to him. He couldn't help but notice the scowl distorting her beautiful features.

"He didn't understand?" he asked timidly.

"Of course he didn't understand!" she replied angrily. "He's the Sanctum's puppet. I just wish he'd open up his eyes to the truth."

"So what do we do now?"

"We carry on," she answered. "It's time the people learnt the truth."

She leant round and kissed her husband fully on the lips.

"Let's show Cocoon what the Sanctum has been hiding!"

* * *

><p>After some turbulence I wished I'd paid attention to the in-flight safety instructions. The shuttle, now empty bar me, tossed and turned by the winds, threatened to flip our craft over with every buffeting gust. Vicious rain lashed against the side of the hull while clattering like incessant machine-gun fire against the metal shell. The wind howled as it streamed past. Out of the tiny window only the mist and the gloom of the heart of the raging storm was visible. How the pilot could pretend to steer through this I had no idea. As I clenched against the hardened plastic hand rest my knuckles grew white. My fear of heights countered against my tightening jaw in my suppressed screaming. We were going nowhere it seemed, just at the mercy of this relentless typhoon.<p>

"We'll be arriving at Station 9 in five minutes." The pilot called over the intercom. I breathed a sigh of relief, quickly extinguished as bolts of golden lightning crashed down past our ship.

The horrible rocking finally abated, and Station 9 finally came into view. The shuttle flew into the open hangar, and the sound of a news bulletin echoed.

"Breaking news, riots continue outside the Edenhall. Another series of protests against the rationing imposed by Kuatycorps and other bio-tech corporations."

Overly large doors opened to a spacious and ornate entrance hall devoid of movement nor life. A board murmured out the current events. PSICOM were dealing with it, including a contingent of mechanised Elites. As I stared out over the news my exposed skin started warming with the greeting air. The circular room was manned by three receptionists behind a central counter space. Three liabilities. I walked along the side of the room, my feet unconsciously falling in step with the guards. All of them were Guardian Corps. They were walking on towards their booth, a nerve centre for the security in the ship's public docking area. I decided against heading directly to a public terminal. All I would do is be caught.

My inventory covered a lot to do with dealing with groups, with crowds. What I needed now was a bit of subterfuge. Preferably, I'd have taken my time infiltrating but my growing brand was a constant reminder of my schedule. There were two cameras overlooking the terminal, one at the rear for looking over the data and one to the side for facial recognition. I breezed on past the central counter just behind the guards, a set of stairs leading along to three levels. The GC sergeant had pulled out the readout on the wall and was opening the door to the security booth. They all entered. Reflexes primed, I tossed the gas grenade through the opening to the sounds of a hollow cry. They'd be out for a while.

A few minutes later I was looking over at the shift one offices. One person was working overtime.

"They keep you up here pretty late." I mentioned as a worker looked up. A greyish pallor. A greying shirt. He looked like he wanted to talk.

"That's because... Oh to hell with it. it doesn't matter any-more. It's because I falsify all the records here."

I blinked. "They probably don't want you telling people that."

"You see this skin? People in my job catch the Grey Death."

"Doesn't that mean immediate redundancy?"

"Not if my shift manager keeps in pocket."

"Oh? How much does it take to get a look at Ixion?"

"I don't know. He's rich though. What's a PSICOM grunt doing with bribes anyway? If you're here to fire people then go ahead."

"I don't have that kind of power. Why are you working overtime?"

He looked down at his work. He had his reasons, I had mine. I couldn't get any more information out if this one so slipped behind him, pushing down on his jugular with a pointed finger. A bloodless end. My gaze rose. It would be foolish to look at the shift manager's overlook immediately after talking to his employee.

I had, maybe, only five minutes grace time to get through to Ixion. There was only going to be one person who controlled all of the doors. Only one person standing in my way. It dawned on me that the GC uniform would service my needs better than my PSICOM garb, so I walked on up to the shift manager's office. To all intents and purposes it had looked as though I'd just talked with the employees on the way in. Shift-manager Hundley's door posed a brass plaque, the door itself opening to reveal a spacious office and a balding sycophant. All it took was four seconds to cross the room, four seconds to change a life, and four again to pull up the door locks and unbar my way to the security booth and beyond.

I gave myself clearance to get through to Ixion and walked on down the stairwell. The booth itself carried little security. The gas had settled, allowing me ease of access to the cameras, to the recordings, and to the armoury. I cleaned my knife and placed two explosives in my front pouch, a pistol, about 70'000 Gil and 4 more clips of munitions. Within about twenty seconds I learned how to disassemble my pistol and grabbed a spare for replacements.

There was a tingle as I touched the sigil on the door though there was no magic running through the etchings. It was only an interface, only a hologram designed to receive data. From the depths of my memory I recalled that each fal'Cie had a Sephir – a personalised mark. I wore one, the Sephir taking form as a set of interposed cubes. Forked cubes. Nobles of old were always branded, until the true fate of fal'Cie was revealed. Now, corporations having more power than the government, part of me wanted to say that almost all terrorist activity had someone like me at the root.

The last doors glided open to reveal the fal'Cie suspended in its cage. The glimmering metals reflected the light from the writhing creature. Many disks had been set to rotate around the creature, each of them spinning to reach the cooling systems as the fal'Cie gave off globes of energy released in an endless cycle of thunderstorms and hurricanes. From here, offset on a balcony high above the creature, I could see that the disks did more than cool the creature and steal it's energy, but also shock it. The sparks triggered immense blue tendrils that would scythe out from the fal'Cie, connecting to various computers and sensors on the outskirts of the room. Ixion was powering something much more powerful, much more dynamic than the force of a typhoon of hurricane. He was powering a Universal Constructor.

I looked at the computer closest to me and, through the protective barrier, I could see the wiry tendril thrashing about inside the makeshift socket like a fish trying to wrench itself of a hook. Those tendrils were locked in place with runes themselves. Ixion was captive, caged. Icy tendrils of my own throbbed and burned, but I had key business to attend to. I took a stepladder down to the lower floors, glancing over the complex machines that controlled the rain and storms all over Palumpolum. This was one sure way to make myself hated and feared. Either I could save Ixion, bringing myself to the mercy of the creature, to the vague presumption that it understood gratitude, or I could destroy it. Examining the console, it was possible to transmit substances back at Ixion. Manipulating the controls, I sent a small Fire ball at the fal'Cie. Ixion would burn. At his size, Ixion would know slow, encroaching fire in his last hours. I burned him again, burning past the creature's shell and immolating an area just enough for the childlike flames to grow.

The whole station jolted as the air pressure dropped. I'd hardly the strength to stand in the, now thinning, air. Ixion was aflame, like a firework, bound in a sheath of myriad colours. Forks of lightning smothered the entire ball in golden and pale blue light as sensors fried. I'd be lying if I say I didn't feel a pang of sympathy for the creature. By and large, I knew I could not force Ixion to feel his murderer's gaze in his dying moments. I dared not look. I'd thought that, in my despair, slaughtering Ixion would overwrite my brand. Either my focus was to make the fal'Cie 'burn,' or I would reset my timer. By killing the fal'Cie, I could fight against my fate.

Another sheet of lightning blazed over the surface of the avatar. I supplemented more magic for Ixion's destruction, each ball eliciting another wave of bolts to streak across the surface. However I turned the notion around in my head. I felt wrong. I was torturing the captive creature. My brand may be about to turn me Cie'th. I had no choice. My weight lightened and my spine gradually clicked and popped as I maintained my barrage for minutes on end. Out of nothing, I felt a burning pain in my neck - on my brand. I thought I was too late and the transformation was beginning. I fought against the pain, desperate to stop the change but the pain became too hard to bear. My head felt lighter. My lungs felt starved. My throat grew dry. My eyesight began to blur. I felt my eyes close slowly, ever so slowly, as the pain took over with its sharp, tingling embrace.

* * *

><p>There's a strange calmness that surrounds and permeates unconsciousness. The blurred marks in my vision faded to black, granting me the first sight of peace without a life of magic or the life of a machine. Was my abilities breaking down?<p>

The lurid spots started to fade back. The magic was replicating. Every single one, a star in the void and more than before. I felt a power welling inside of me. There was a twitch. Enough of this. Now for the time of my life.

* * *

><p>I opened my eyes, wide awake and scrambling to my feet. I grabbed one of the control benches to remain upright. Everything was as it had been; the consoles, the protective disks, even Ixion seemed to have calmed down. The now placid blue sphere intermittently emblazoned by a small flash of lightning. I chuckled quietly to myself. Like I could kill a fal'Cie, a demi-god, an incarnation of magic itself. The monitors had turned black.<p>

I reached up to touch the ink pattern printed on my skin. My reflection was no longer as large as it had been The previous brand was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a smaller one, alike to the one I found that fateful morning. The one reminder of my first focus was gone, perhaps forever. The newest tattoo grew no larger at my sight, just another part of me. Another Sephir. The emergency vents had kicked in, so I climbed back up the steps and made my way back to the reception hall. I considered the fact that, if my plan had worked, I had an escape route. I had a way to beat my future as one of the shambling, as one of the living cadavers known as Cie'th.

Alarms were sounding, so all I had to do was to escape from the ship undetected. There was little time for subtlety, Station 9 would have to be disabled, at least in part. The security booth, now reeking of stagnant blood, let me cover my traces with deleted records while I turned the automated turrets against the GC. It was very hard to do your job when your own security measures started firing at you.

The least I could do was to make a quick exit. No shuttle would dock now, I just had to hope that there was one already there. There was. The on duty secretaries abandoned their posts, their contracts broached and their right to flee extended by the several balls of magic I hurled at them. In less than a minute, I was in the shuttle cabin, the realms of fighting a world away.

* * *

><p>I lay back on the armchair in the boarding house, lounging back with my wrist's info-link projecting the news on a convenient stretch of wall. I polished my gun. My aches had largely gone and my wounds mostly healed before I started thinking over what had happened.<p>

I awoke not a week ago with the Sephir of a Sanctum fal'Cie, just above my collarbone. I scanned through the headlines. There were parades outside the Edenhall. PSICOM had weathered the storm of civil unrest until the fal'Cie Eden had rescinded the Primarch's decision. The fal'Cie had stepped in, when they did that there was always a good reason. What's the point of a theocracy without a higher power? Ixion was one of those higher powers, but had hardly featured on the bulletin. All that it displayed was that there was faulty security, killing 30 people in the now christened "Station 9 accident." Palumpolum could look forward to unpredictable weather while they repaired the ship and discovered exactly how much Ixion had cut his output. Much of the evidence would be scorched beyond recognition but I knew I left traces. Every killing had its own signature.

I grimaced. I was a proper terrorist, cutting the power at the source for my own ideals. I looked over the names. 30 families with one less mouth to feed. One less breadwinner to bring home the cash. 30 less lifetimes of diligent guard duty for the Guardian Corps.

A gunship cruised low over Palumpolum. I had to admit, from a professional point of view I'd hate to break into something like that. The gunships, each and every one of them a heavy cruiser, could probably support a fal'Cie. I pondered over the government, over the people, and over the technology for over a day. I had enough funds. I had enough time to give myself some free space.


	5. Chapter 5

_**It's been a week since my last update, but here's the next chapter, involving another OC of mine and another fal'Cie. I also flesh out Hope's back story a bit, with his family issues. Again, I'd love a review from anyone!**_

* * *

><p>Chapter 5<p>

The moon and stars were hidden from sight, making that particular quiet night especially dark. Neon illuminated my face. In amongst the grime, the only building that resembled modern society was an old health clinic lost in the quintessential retreat of the downtrodden and downcast. A few people had started pulling readouts from their wrists. Already the crowds had filtered off to their jobs and livelihoods. I suppose, if you really wanted to know what a mech looked like, you'd come to the slums of Palumpolum to reach the outskirts of Furnace.

Furnace was the grim undercity of Palumpolum. You didn't go there. I made a search for anything of interest; the crimes, the gangs and most importantly, the fal'Cie. From the outset I knew it'd be burdened heavily with armoured vehicles and patrols. The power plants turned the abundant fal'Cie energy into efficient power for the outskirts of the city. The factories churned out robotics, wiring and computing to support a growing demand for servo-mechanics and bio-technology. Lothar's health had become a matter of importance to the state as fresh water ran scarce and the rioting had proved that the government wouldn't survive another term of rationing and cuts. It was PSICOM that held the Sanctum in power. I noticed that the grunts here had armour marked with a crude double hashed 'Y.' They patrolled the slums with a certain nervy accent. Several cruisers had docked around the complex, the armour mingling with the burnished steel and concrete supports and warehouse buildings flanking it.

Strange. Here was the source of all the fresh water on Palumpolum, a mesh of piping siphoning off from the font of Lothar, but the main focus of the area lay in its industry. The people would protest at the Edenhall - with all the media coverage it brought - rather than riot in the slums near the seat of the problems.

When people 'did' protest here they found their outlet in paint. Graffiti had been layered over the local barracks; the Guardian Corps had been reassigned weeks before. The walls showed among the brooding squalor the bubbling thoughts that festered on the minds of the people. For the most part, the ideas were simple. I read the stories of people who'd lost their loved ones to machines. There were no people. There was no time for flesh in a world of steel.

* * *

><p>"It's time to move the plan forward. Get Animos ready, and prep him with the mission requirements."<p>

* * *

><p>Days past, and the fal'Cie looked impenetrable. The compound swarmed with soldiers; even some Elites had been reigned in to watch over the building. It would take an inside job, for sure. My magical abilities had improved since my encounter with Ixion, but I was nowhere near the stage where taking on a fully armed compound wasn't suicide.<p>

But I hardly had a choice. Transport in Furnace was an impossibility and to wander the streets aimlessly was dangerous at best. I suddenly wished I had kept with PSICOM for just a little longer, at least just to enquire as to the locations of other fal'Cie. My new brand had started its crawl across my flesh and I needed to get moving soon.

A finger tapped me on the shoulder, and I swivelled quickly, drawing my pistol to face my acquaintance. The ageing eyes and scarred skin of Samnos peered back at me.

"Quickly," he motioned towards a dark alleyway. I followed cautiously.

"What brings you to this hell-hole?" he asked, once we had privacy.

"It's cheap, and it has all I need," I said bluntly. "And I could say the same for you? What kind of future did they offer you? Getting you down in Furnace must have taken them a great deal of effort."

"I suppose I was just won over by their idea of how things should be. They've given me a week to work on the outpost here. I'm disgusted by the way some things are."

A mechanised person ran down the alleyway, barging between the two of us. He was pursued by another mech.

"These machines are a disgrace to their existence, given up to technophilia and graffiti," Samnos sighed. "And yet, they're as dangerous as any human population."

"Huh, PSICOM's worried then?"

"We're all worried. The riots are getting more and more regular and it'll just take a spark to set it all off. And I doubt even with PSICOM's arsenal could we deal with all of these mechanised humans. It's silly to think we spent so long trying to design the perfect mechanical warrior and an army of them are already alive and waiting down here."

"PSICOM still has its aura of power though. They're still scared of you," I mentioned.

"It'll only take one incident to change that. And I fear it's coming soon." His voice was so defeatist, I could hardly believe I used to look up to him.

"Anyway, I better be off."

* * *

><p>I found a nearby café and pondered on that conversation. It seemed ridiculous to suggest the might of PSICOM could be toppled by an unorganised rank of social lowlifes, but the more I observed, the more I realised Samnos was right. I was firmly in the minority as a fully-human being and as the people around me bustled, I noticed each had an individualistic flair about them. They felt an undying need to express themselves in metal, gears, chains, and servo-mechanics bolted, riveted, or even taped on each limb, on each appendage. One replaced half his face. One would have replaced his whole body if it would have improved performance. And yet while all these mechs were individuals at heart, they all seem united by their hatred of the Sanctum and of PSICOM. I thought back to the fal'Cie itself and could almost see why. How could a community so close to the water supply be in so much poverty?<p>

A visored thug wearing out of date body armour sat down in front of me.

"It's all about versions, functionality, performance," rattled off a posh accent through a thick mask. "You're not a mech." he said, putting down his cup next to his pistol he'd left on the table.

"Neither you." I said, looking up from the empty clip he was refilling. His hand, having removed his visor, revealed his disfigured face. His nose was cracked and misshapen. His mouth was warped by scarlet scars.

"You're in the, ah, shall we say... procurement business, l'Cie?" he said in hushed tones. I daren't look away as, at the pay desk behind him, a PSICOM agent flipped his badge at the receptionist. She called for the manager. My prospective client noticed my shift in attention.

"Sit quiet. You're not the man they're looking for."

The officer glanced around, apparently taking the manager's word for what it was worth, then leaving.

"PSICOM's been active here lately. Then you turn up. Seems to me a godsend. No-one local would tell me what I want to know." His voice was accented strangely. His albino skin hinted at no origins.

"What 'do' you want to know?"

""I wanna know how a PSICOM officer can get chucked out the force." Here was a stranger guessing my past. "I wanna know, right, how a fal'Cie can prevent Lothar from being tainted by PSICOM. That officer you saw here is looking for an immunologist." My heart calmed. "He supposedly found a cure to a virus PSICOM thought only they could cure"

"PSICOM are using viruses as a way of controlling the people?"

"That's what I thought, but they're hardly gonna admit to it."

"He'd be a liability then," I surmised. "He'd be able to show up PSICOM for what they are"

"That's what I guess. I need to get to this immunologist quickly, and I need an out-of-towner to do it."

"It'll be expenses only. He's not my primary target."

"Deal. Get to an alcove by the street light near Holmecroft lane. More details then."

* * *

><p>It was a speakeasy. People would come up here for booze and recreation. Most would stay for the gossip. Some would stay for other 'activities'. I'd seen already too much of some to interest myself in their rather intimate conversations as I walked over to the grate.<p>

"Don't want to hang round here. They say the alley's haunted."

I hadn't expected this. "S'not about the ghosts, it's about the people behind them."

He pulled up the grating of the sewer entrance. "Does me no good to see that we're prohibited a greater ration of water."

"Is there a register?"

"Yeah, every room's on it. More rooms, more water."

We walked inside.

The open area behind the sewer shaft was bolted shut. After a manner of minutes opening it, the pair of us passed down a flight of stairs. Pondering, my trained eyes noticed that the stranger's presence seemed to disable some of the security measures as we walked. The hideout was unusual. It was an octagonal room. It had a bolted door, as said, but no automatic ventilation. We had to pump in our own air from oxygen tanks. The room contained one octagonal table. We took two of the eight chairs.

"Your objective is to cause the Universal Constructor attached to Lothar to overload."

"I thought..."

"We know that Lothar has something to do with the cure, but we don't know how. We need to lure the immunologist out in order to find this information."

"But how will destroying Lothar help that?"

"PSICOM believe this immunologist is the only one who knows that Lothar is involved. If something happens to Lothar, PSICOM will believe they are responsible."

"And in the resulting commotion, you swipe the immunologist before they can catch him," I guessed.

"Exactly," he eyed my brand, just peeking out from under my balaclava. "Besides, I'm sure you'll find a trip to the fal'Cie useful. You will use the side entrance under the canal road tunnel."

* * *

><p>"They've found us!"<p>

Dr. Reales stood panting, eyes wild with fear as his wife rushed into the room.

"We need to get moving!" she yelled, trying to grab hold of her husband's hand, but he resisted.

"No, I can't go on. They'll just catch us anyway."

"But-"

"No Faith, you go," he insisted, kissing his wife on the cheek. "Go to your brother, and get safe."

She looked desperately into his eyes, but when they didn't change, she merely nodded and rushed over to the window, and thrusting it open.

"I love you," he said, as she climbed out of the window. A solitary tear fell down her cheek, as the front door burst open and PSICOM officers flooded into the room.

* * *

><p>Police lights glared overhead. My associate ran. I ran also, just to get under the cover of the Canal Road tunnel before PSICOM arrived. They passed by without stopping nor slowing. They didn't even look around. Canal Road was one of the seedier areas of the district. Wearing out their fingers were a bunch of hackers glued to a banking terminal. The side door itself was unused. My eyes grew accustomed to the gloom of red emergency lighting while my lockpick touched the intricate mechanisms of the cistern. Not even pausing, I opened the top of the machinery. There was a long descent into blackness ahead of me.<p>

I paused, peering cautiously down into the shaft. A hint of a watery shimmer flickered at the bottom. The hole was just wide enough for a person to slip into. Dripping water met my ears. Wind spells would be useless aside from stopping me graze against the sides. I jumped in.

It's ironic that I've spent a large amount of my time falling despite my crushing fear of heights. Plummeting to one place or another. You never get used to your ribcage crunching every time you impact the water like it's liquid steel. The plunge is always a problem as you never know which way is up.

The slow rise of the bubbles from my splash confessed the way to the surface. It was just below a mesh of piping attached to a maintenance ward. No people. Just a eerie red glow. There was no reason to have emergency lighting activated, it was just the ambient glow of a point of light placed on my fingertip. No reason to evacuate a building. No sirens, no klaxons. Security cameras were lax this deep into the compound. No one plans for an intruder to come from the inside. A computer terminal before a large Adamantite window stood before me before not too long. The two exits to the sides closed by heavy steel doors, but lousy with vents and air ducts.

The terminal was active. It read of 'Ambrosia' and 'Grey death.' There was no vaccine given to the public, I knew. I'd have to take on trust that I wasn't destroying the only hope of a cure for millions. The terminal monitoring the UC was identical to that of Ixion's. The fal'Cie though, was nowhere to be seen. Huge wires draped from the machine, leading out of sight. I could only hope the fal'Cie could reach me in time.

I ran the cascade sequence, stretching and overheating the overused system. A colossal aqua tendril thrashed out of nowhere, crazily flailing behind the Adamantite screen. The fal'Cie had awoken to my touch of the keys. The window broke and shattered. Shards cut into my flesh as I groped in horror at my blood-covered throat. The tendril, spotting its prone target, shot straight towards me, embedding itself into my neck. Fetid magic flooded through me, ice in my veins. My body slowed to a standstill. I faded to blackness.

* * *

><p>Hope peered cautiously through a crack between his door and the wall. His aunt had returned again, the second time in a few days, the second time in a few years. She and his dad were at it again, arguing. All they ever did was argue. He couldn't help but feel so sorry for the family of his father. His dedication to his work was enviable, his neglect of family punishable.<p>

"Please Bartholomew. I need you."

"It was stupid of you to come here! You've put us all in danger. I won't put my family at risk, harbouring a fugitive!"

Nora appeared from nowhere and entered the room, gently closing the door behind her.

"I'm sorry about your father," she said slowly. "He's so caught up with work at the moment-"

"When isn't he 'caught up' with work?" Hope replied bitterly. "Why doesn't he spend more time with us? Why? Aren't we important to him?"

"Don't be ridiculous Hope," Nora consoled. "He loves you more than anything in the world."

"Well why doesn't he show it?"

Before she could answer, a loud knocking at the door at the door was heard.

"You called them?" screamed through the closed door. "On your own sister?"

Nora reached to cover Hope's ears, but he slipped away from her grasp. The screaming got louder

"The Sanctum's poisoned you, Bartholomew! And when you're no longer useful to them, they'll dispose of you too!"

An eerie quiet followed, and Nora slowly opened Hope's door.

"Has she gone?" she asked tentatively. Her husband remained silent.

"I wish you wouldn't be so loud," she continued. "Hope..."

"I'll be sure to spend some time with him," he said quietly. "At least, whenever the current crisis ends, love."

A dreamy look crossed his wife's face.

"Say that again."

"Say what Nora?"

"Love, Bartholomew. You hardly ever say it."

"Yes love," he said, with an uncomprehending smile. With that she, at least, was satisfied.

* * *

><p>My eyes, cracked and crusted by congealed blood, were difficult to open. My fingers, although a sight for sore eyes, felt my throat again. I had been healed in front of the terminal at the compound. A visor looked over me and a throaty voice sighed.<p>

"You nearly didn't make it."

"You could have done this job yourself?"

"I was doing another job. You happened to be convenient."

"I'm no use to you, why revive me?"

"You completed your task. I figured you might remain useful."

I looked up at my saviour, and saw a little machine lying in his hand.

"A manadrive?"

"Magic has it's uses, as I'm sure you know"

"True."

We accompanied the other to the exit. PSICOM had relocated its efforts elsewhere.


	6. Chapter 6

_**So here we go, another chapter up. It's a bit short, but it includes further extension of my OCs, and a good battle scene. Any reviews would be welcome **_

* * *

><p>Chapter 6<p>

A fist flew. Her face was hit. None such torture since her hardened training three years ago. None such methods could be countered by endurance, but still she held on to her resolve.

"Bastards!" she screamed. Another bruise for her collection.

The torturer's comm buzzed, so he shut off the sound and took his mail. Reales took in a glance at her cell. A PSICOM base sure enough.

"The Lieutenant wants to see you," her assailant relayed, before plunging a syringe into her thigh.

She was led, semi conscious after a brief injection, to another room. Techni-coloured bubbles slowly resolved into a video feed. Here was a mask being placed on someone's face. Here was a set of injections pumped into the person's throat. Here was her husband, blind to the world.

"How does it feel?"

Nabaat smirked as her captive refused to answer.

"To be betrayed by family. To be considered worthless to the people who should care most about you."

Silence.

"And now the one man you loved is mine. I won't need to kill you," she laughed. "There's so much pain in that head of yours. It'll consume you."

Silence.

* * *

><p>From cramped sewers to ventilation shafts, from the fragmented edges of Palumpolum to the inner city floors of Palumpolum, I'd never considered the corpulent excesses of the 'golden river' running through Palumpolum. The fal'Cie Mantaouk dealt with the waste. There were few who could stand such an area. The local people were said to be those left clinging to the gutter when 'social welfare' came to help. My companion had brought me here. He had a means of travel I did not. We walked into the public house and bartered for their two remaining rooms.<p>

I was afforded a view of Mantaouk's complex. A hotel lay opposite the bunker, from which my companion promised I would be able to find an entrance. PSICOM soldiery gathered in groups and whispered in alcoves. Some were in uniform. The officers who caught them talking were ruthless. It was very unlike the lax, yet efficient Guardian Corps outpost I'd expected. It was unusual for a whole PSICOM battalion to be found here. The soldiers were unsure so they reassured each other, conspired with the other in return. The officers, tense to the last, oppressed the lower ranks, received their 'just' reward after hours behind the pubs in return. There was strife here. PSICOM was worried.

"There's a new troop about," my companion said, breaking my observations. "Marauders. A soldier in a mechanical shell. He's packed full of drugs and incited by propaganda. He'll die if he leaves the suit now, but he wields a lance, infused with magic."

I was surprised. PSICOM had been working on a mech warrior for years, but I had no idea they had progressed so far. I looked warily at my companion. He too, seemed to know of PSICOM, but quite how much was a mystery.

He spoke no more on any topic. Just putting his visor back on. Only noticeable as an article in the paper I read. Another news item popped up. It read that the Marauder was about to be produced. A cheery read.

* * *

><p>Numbed. Every pore dilated. Marauder A1-01 rose from the table, tearing every pipe connected to it, reducing the door to ash with a glaive of burning gold. Here was his target. It was only a building full of people. It shouldn't take long.<p>

* * *

><p>"I've thus disproved God!" a crier preached to his audience. "These petty anarchistic groups talk about the rights of man. We hate rights as we hate wrongs." Who was this? I was interested.<p>

A PSICOM barricade had encircled a group of devout followers who were killing themselves in religious ecstasy. Finally, the last cheer rang out for the speech as the last follower, then the leader, slit their throat and bathed those around in blood. A grim scene. The officer called for the bodies to be checked and for a mass coup-de-gras should any have survived. The clean-up operation began with the removal of the concrete structures, placed there for the citizen's safety.

"At least they're not hostile to us," I commented.

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," my companion replied.

We hurried along past to the side of a local Kuatycorps outpost. There was already a tag on the walls in, what I hoped, was red paint. Obliterating the rest of the graffiti was an etching of a bullet scored into the wall. This suicide cult seemed to be a bubbling issue. We were greeted with a PSICOM contingent outside the next building. They were bottling up some armed group. I remembered the suicide cult. Maybe there was another group inside? Were the anarchists holding captives?

Watching the scene from afar, I could see that there walked a 'Marauder.' I'd not seen one, but my guess was not too far off. It swaggered into the doorway, shattering steel. The hail of gunfire greeted him and welcomed him to the building.

"That's one hell of a shock troop. We're here to destroy it." muttered a scarred man who'd blended into the crowd. I decided that, from chaos, I could bring conquest. The fal'Cie was waiting.

* * *

><p>We crept along through the shops surrounding the hotel, looking for a way up. A lift was adequate - I'd have taken the stairs, were they required in all buildings - and we reached the roof hatch unnoticed while the shopkeepers watched the hotel's reception disintegrate to the delicate forks of synthesised lightning.<p>

This roof was occupied. A PSICOM sniper glared over the side. His blood felt warm to my now slippery hands. My companion took the rifle, and motioned for me to head back down. There had to be a way to lure the Marauder out. I wanted to keep casualties to a minimum.

The rear of the hotel was unprotected and proved reliable as I crept through a briefly closed, window. The fire teams had already entered. One recruit turned from the room's only door and looked at me. His reactions failed him. I took the rounds from the dead officer's handgun and moved along. Another officer. The throat was misshapen in this one. There were two grenades. I tossed them through the open doorway, and continued to look for a way under the hotel. There I would find the fal'Cie.

* * *

><p>Faith had seen enough. Nabaat had fed the feed from her husband's helmet into her cell. It was all her willpower to tear herself away just the once. All her self discipline to close her eyes as she watched her husband massacre the building's occupants. Every one of them a normal civilian, guarding against their own destruction.<p>

* * *

><p>I spotted a room full of anarchists. Before they could react to my presence, thunderous lightning crashed among them, roasting them alive. They didn't have a chance to scream. I tentatively entered the room, to see the back of the Marauder start to head out of my sight. I had to stop this.<p>

* * *

><p>I dived through the fire escape, adrenaline pumping, the Marauder's glaive slung over my back. That ought to rile it. How I'd considered base theft I did not know. Exits were few and PSICOM was coming. I soon found my weapon empty of shots. I headed down into the basement.<p>

A small grate in the basement offered my only choice of escape. The booming steps of the Marauder followed me down. I quickly opened the grate and hurried into the pipework under the building.

There was an almighty crash as the Marauder smashed through the ceiling. The elite shock-troop continued its pursuit. The walls offered little resistance as he smashed ceilings and floors in order to catch me. There was no stopping this juggernaut. The pipes were my only option. They led to the furnace of Mantaouk himself. Close to the fal'Cie, I hid.

* * *

><p>The video feed shorted out, as the Marauder travelled out of range. Faith cautiously opened her eyes. Biometrics flashed on the screen, the only sign her husband was still alive. If you can call being imprisoned in a mechanical shell and drugged beyond comprehension 'alive.'<p>

* * *

><p>The Marauder ran past me, unthinking to the last, leaving me my last card to play. My Water spell caught him in the back. He spun round, seeking his assailant. I launched the glaive at the fal'Cie behind him.<p>

My energy spent, hoping that the fal'Cie would respond. Grey tentacles flailed from the fal'Cie, striking the Marauder full in the chest. I watched the Marauder erupt into glorious static, his Manadrive ruptured. The unsheathed mana swamped the Marauder's immobile form, enveloping the armour in electricity. His electrified alloys brought him into contact with the aflame fal'Cie. The fal'Cie was struck. More tentacles erupted from it's form, and embedded themselves into my neck. My sight turned sour once more.

* * *

><p>The lights on the screen flashed no more. Faith collapsed to the floor, tears streaming down her face. Her husband was dead, and PSICOM was to blame. Pain morphed into anger.<p>

"If I ever get out of here," she muttered to herself. "I'll let PSICOM know exactly what I can do."


End file.
